


Sweeter Than Honey, Your Eyes

by starlady



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Charles You Slut, Charles You Will Be Drunk, Christian Character, Dubious Consent, Gladiators, Multi, Rape/Non-con References, Shaving, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:18:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlady/pseuds/starlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The emperor stands out in his purple toga and beard, of course, but it's the youth at his side, wearing a tunic in the Greek style that bares a powerful shoulder, who catches Magnus's eye. The sunlight flashes off the gold jewelry at his neck, wrists, and bicep when--Magnus swears--he inclines his poppy-crowned head towards Magnus. His blue eyes, artfully accented by cosmetics, go just slightly wider, and his red mouth, matched by the crimson of the poppies in his unbound brown hair, tilts in what might be a smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cum puero bello imperatorem qui videt esse…

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aesc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesc/gifts).



> Inspired by this [amazing art post](http://starlady38.tumblr.com/post/43753592634/theletteraesc-pangeasplits-marourin-xmfc). Edited a little from [the original Tumblr post]().

Magnus has survived thirty-two bouts in the arena by the time he makes it to Rome herself, under, he was assured, the eyes of the emperor on this particular day. What the emperor looks like, or whether he's actually present, Magnus cannot say, since as an _andabata_ he fights wearing a helmet that doesn't allow him to see. _Andabata_ generally don't last long; he was originally given the helmet as part of his punishment. It was only when he had survived his fifth bout that his sentence _ad gladiatorum_ was commuted to _damnati ad ludum_ and he was allowed to take the sacred oath.

The emperor stands out in his purple toga and beard, of course, but it's the youth at his side, wearing a tunic in the Greek style that bares a powerful shoulder, who catches Magnus's eye. The sunlight flashes off the gold jewelry at his neck, wrists, and bicep when--Magnus swears--he inclines his poppy-crowned head towards Magnus. His blue eyes, artfully accented by cosmetics, go just slightly wider, and his red mouth, matched by the crimson of the poppies in his unbound brown hair, tilts in what might be a smile. 

Feeling his own heart pound, Magnus bows again along with the rest of the gladiators, and doesn't look back up until he's entered the _hypogeum_ beneath the arena and the shade hides the youth from view. In the darkness of the torch-lit underground, the youth's blue eyes shine all the brighter in Magnus' mind. 

"Did you see the emperor?" he asks his cell-mate, a _retarius_ named Quintus who's well-known at Rome and has, luckily for Magnus' curiosity, fought under the eyes of the emperor before. 

Quintus snorts. "His Hellenic Majesty? Yes, he looks the same as ever." 

"Who is that youth next to him?" Magnus asks, not bothering to hide his interest. Anyone looking at that boy would have the exact same interest. 

"His _cinaedus_? Blue eyes?" Quintus laughs at the look on Magnus' face. "Don't glare at me like that, Magnus, every man who sees him wants to put his sword in him--you haven't even seen his ass. His name is Carolos. He's a very high-class courtesan, and the emperor's favorite." Quintus eyes Magnus speculatively. "You've won enough prizes that you might be able to afford him, for one night." 

"Is he worth his price?" Magnus asks bluntly. Quintus has won many purses, and can presumably afford to have Carolos, at least once. 

But Quintus shakes his head. "I'd prefer to be manumitted, Magnus, not castrated. The walls in the city say he's a wonderful fuck, but you'd have to be crazy to hunt in the emperor's territory." 

He does, Magnus concedes, have a point. 

By the time his bout is next, in the late afternoon, he's nearly forgotten beautiful Carolos' blue eyes and red, red mouth. Quintus, who's fighting next, gives him the fig sign for luck when he leaves the cell, and then he's walking into the arena. The helmet seals him away from the noise of the crowd, but doesn't do much for the heat and dust--although it blocks his eyes, it doesn't cover his nose and mouth. Magnus allows himself to pause for a single second as he exits the _hypogeum_. Three years after he took the oath, here he stands in the Flavian Amphitheater with tens of thousands of Romans screaming his name. Perhaps another _andabata_ would be unable to tell that the din reverberating against the helmet could be resolved into "Magnus! Magnus!" but Magnus is no ordinary _andabata_. His gift of metal lets him hear, and understand. 

It's the gift of metal that's allowed him to survive and prosper so extraordinarily, of course, and Magnus uses his gift to walk with his opponent, a _murmillo_ of some repute named Gaius, to give the traditional salute to the emperor and the referee. At the signal from the horns, he hefts his sword, and waits. 

Magnus is experienced in this by now, and he fights well, as well as he ever has. Indeed, when Gaius raises his finger in defeat, his armor torn away and his sword lying on the far side of the arena, Magnus thinks to himself that this may have been his best fight yet. 

He strips off the helmet after the referee gives the signal, and the noise in the amphitheater only grows. Magnus and Gaius trade glances from their respective places, Gaius remaining on the ground. He fought well, and the crowd knows it; moreover, he's an old favorite in the capital. The screams for _missio_ grow louder and louder, and the crowds erupt into wild cheering when the emperor lifts his hand in the signal for mercy. Gaius scrambles to his feet, bowing to the emperor and the Vestal Virgins and raising his arms to the crowd in gratitude, then ducks into the _hypogeum_ , leaving Magnus under the eyes of the emperor. 

The emperor, and Carolos beside him. They're both looking at him, and Magnus looks back, as aware of Carolos' ringed hand on the emperor's arm as if the courtesan were touching Magnus himself. 

_Magnus_ , a voice whispers in his thoughts, and it's _not his_. Only Magnus' years in the arena keep him from showing any reaction. _Erik. Do you want to be free?_

_Are you a god?_ Magnus wonders involuntarily, but no sooner than he's asked he thinks, _Of course I want to be free. Of course._

_I'm not a god, I'm just a man, just like you, Erik._ The voice is educated, warm; this alleged man might be whispering in Magnus' ear. _You're not alone, Erik. I swear to you, you're not alone._

How long these thoughts have taken, Magnus can't tell; his perception of time in the arena is never entirely reliable. But he blinks, and Carolos is leaning in towards the emperor, speaking in an undertone. Even at this distance, Magnus can't miss the flirtatious curve of his body. 

The crowd is still shouting. The emperor straightens, gestures again, and then suddenly the shouts are all "Magnus! _Rudis_! Magnus! _Rudis_!" He's being given his freedom, Magnus realizes, and suddenly his knees feel weak. 

_No, Erik._ It's the voice again. _You've come so far. Be strong, just a little while longer._

Magnus grits his teeth, but keeps his feet, stands tall and proud as one of the assistants comes forward, bearing the wooden sword that symbolizes a gladiator's freedom. He can accept it now, and be free of the arena and the games, or he can refuse and remain a gladiator. 

All of a sudden Magnus feels himself overcome by doubt. What will he do if he ceases to be a gladiator? Four years after Judaea, it's all he knows, and-- 

_You're so much more than you know, Erik_ , the voice says, as if its owner can hear his sudden panic. _But you'll never come to know it in the arena. Take the rudis. Come with me._

_Who are you?_ Magnus demands. _How do you know my name? Why do you care about me?_

_I care about you because we're the same_ , the voice responds after a single moment. Sweat rolls down Magnus' bare back as the assistant approaches. He only has seconds remaining in which to decide. _Because together we won't be alone. I know your name because it's in your thoughts, Erik. As for who I am--_ Magnus has the unique experience of hearing another man's laughter in his mind. _I'm sitting right in front of you. The Romans call me Carolos._

_Carolos?!_ Magnus repeats, but there's no reply, and he can't look up at the emperor's boy now anyway; the assistant is making the speech that is ritual upon offering the sword. Magnus doesn't think. He takes the sword and lifts it high above his head, soaking up the adulation of the crowd as it goes wild for him, one last time. 

When he lowers the blade, his eyes catch Carolos' over it, and they regard each other for a single bare instant before Magnus turns to face the rest of the amphitheater. _I'll come with you_ , Magnus says to him, in his mind. _Tell me what I must do_. 

_You won't regret it_ , Carolos promises. Magnus' heart is pounding in his chest, as though he were still fighting his bout and not the victor. 

_I know_ , he thinks, and he can feel, across the distance, Carolos' smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. This story takes place in the mid-130s CE. The emperor in question is modeled after (and tagged) Hadrian, but I've deliberately stretched the timeline and taken liberties on some things. This is not fully historically accurate, obviously! But a good many of the details are. For instance, Charles being called a "boy" or a "youth" is a reference not to his age (he's about 24 here), but to the fact that as a courtesan he's presumed to take the receptive role in sexual intercourse. A _cinaedus_ , as a male who was sexually receptive, had by definition abnegated the principal component of masculinity (being the sexual penetrator rather than penetratee), but was still attractive to men despite not being "masculine" and was also attractive to women. It's _kind of_ analogous to androgyny, but mostly kind of not. Prostitutes of both sexes were marked by their long, unbound hair. 
> 
> Talking about ancient and Roman ideas about sexuality is difficult because we use so many Latinate terms in such very different ways. The central thing about sexuality in ancient Greece and Rome was not the gender of one's sexual partner but penetrator vs penetrated; it was presumed that men were as much attracted to boys as to women, and it was no shame for youths (mid to late teenage years) in Greece and Rome to take sexually receptive roles in relationships with older men (although the ideology of whether that older man should actually sexually penetrate the youth varied). For adult men, however, to be sexually receptive was shameful, and the accusation of such could bring about a serious and long-term loss of social respectability. (The same thing happened if someone accepted money for sex; by definition, prostitutes and gladiators had a marginal social status that nonetheless did not preclude them from hobnobbing with all levels of society, provided, usually, that they were of the appropriate class.) The social inferiority of women was predicated on the "fact" that they were by definition sexually receptive. 
> 
> Gladiators came to the games in a variety of ways. It was possible for citizens and freedmen to volunteer; one could also be condemned to the games ( _damnatio ad ludi_ ) for a variety of offenses, requiring that the citizenship be stripped from the condemned if necessary. _Damnatio ad bestias_ was a popular form of execution; early Christian martyrs were of course famous for the passion with which they faced the beasts in the arena. Prisoners of war were also routinely condemned to the beasts or to the gladiators, as Erik was; if they were condemned to the gladiators and survived enough fights, they could be allowed to take the sacred gladiatorial oath and to become gladiators like the others. All gladiators regardless of origins were legally slaves, and manumission by being offered a wooden sword ( _rudis_ ) was the way to exit the profession, although gladiators who had been offered and refused the _rudis_ were huge fan favorites. Even as slaves, however, they stood to make a lot of money from purses and product endorsements. 
> 
> All gladiators chose a certain fighting style when they took the oath, and trained and performed in that alone. Erik's is somewhat uncommon, but of course very fitting for him. There were lots of customs about what type of gladiator could fight what other types, but I've mostly disregarded those here. And, although the modern image of the gladiator games is that of bloodsport, demand for gladiators so outstripped supply in the first half of the principate (31 BCE - the mid 3rdC CE) that at several points giving defeated gladiators the death penalty instead of mercy ( _missio_ ) was outlawed. Moreover, not killing one's defeated opponent was seen as a mark of skill, and gladiator funerary inscriptions that boast of not having killed or wounded any opponents have been excavated. 
> 
> The Flavian Amphitheater is of course today known as the Coliseum. The chapter title is a riff on the first half of Catullus 106, "When one sees a beautiful boy with an auctioneer…" The poem implies that the poet's young boyfriend Iuventus is preparing to sell his favors at auction. (The money-conscious young boyfriend was a trope of Hellenistic poetry.) Here, the line is "When one sees a beautiful boy with an emperor…"
> 
> The work title is from a frequent endearment of Catullus for Iuventus, speaking about the youth's "honey-sweet little eyes" ( _mellitos oculos_ ).


	2. Non dico a populo

The rest of the day passes in a dream. Magnus hasn’t been around long enough to have much of a faction, particularly not here in the capital, but Quintus wins his own bout, refuses the _rudis_ , and insists that Magnus accompany him and some of his supporters to a _taberna_ off the Macellum Liviae. Magnus spends a wine-soaked evening toasting and being toasted, but he fends off all questions about what he’ll do now that he’s a freedman with his customary glares. 

He hasn’t seen Carolos since the arena. He’d felt the brush of his mind when the games had concluded, doubtless when he’d accompanied the emperor and the Vestal Virgins out through their own private tunnel in the _hypogeum_ , avoiding the crowds. When Magnus is finally able to duck out of the _taberna_ , the warm spring air feels like a caress on his face, and he shivers, remembering Carolos’ hand on the emperor’s arm. 

He finds that he knows where to go, and after about half an hour’s walk his feet take him to the threshold of a small but tasteful house in a fashionable district, just off the Quirinal Hill. The door is barred, but Magnus raises his hand and pounds his fist on it in a rhythm that he didn’t know he knew, and after a few minutes there’s the sound of the bar scraping upwards. 

A slender hand, female, with serviceable short nails and the tan of work in the sun, thrusts a lantern into his face, and then the woman steps back and lowers the lantern so that he can see, just a bit. She’s as slender as her hand, an attractive face and form by Roman standards, probably only a few years younger than Magnus himself. He steps over the threshold, and helps her re-bar the door. 

“You must be the gladiator,” she says. “Carolos told me to expect you. Welcome to the household. I’m Moira.” 

It’s not a Roman name, and she doesn’t look Roman, either. “I’m Magnus,” he tells her. “Carolos is here?” 

“No, he’s still out at the emperor's residence, I presume,” she says, and gestures towards her temple. “He doesn’t need to send messengers.” 

“Ah,” Magnus says. “Of course.” 

“Come inside,” she says, and when she turns the light glints on the hilt of the plain dagger she wears strapped to her waist. “Do you want anything to eat? Drink?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Magnus says. 

“All right,” she says. “I’ll give you the full tour tomorrow, if you don’t mind. Let me show you to your chamber.”

Magnus indicates his agreement, and she leads him further into the house. “How many are in the household?” he asks as they cross the atrium. “Did Carolos say—“ He hesitates. What _does_ Carolos want from him? 

“There’s myself, Carolos’ attendant Angela, and Armando, the house servant,” Moira says. “And Carolos, of course.”

“And are you—“ 

“We’re all free,” she interrupts him, anticipating his question. Definitely not Roman, with the way she meets his eyes directly. “But we keep it quiet. It’s easier to let people assume—keeps them from asking too many questions.” 

It also leaves every one of them vulnerable, but they must know that as well as Magnus does. It’s not like any of them are in great shape, legally. Even if Carolos is free-born or free, working as a courtesan means forfeiting many of the legal protections liberty entails, and with his status of _infamia_ , he cannot do much to protect the members of his household, either. 

“Carolos has been saying he’d like a bodyguard, if he could find one,” Moira says when they stop in front of the door to a small but comfortable chamber, with a bed and plain wooden table and a window that gives, it appears, onto the household garden. “And Armando could use another hand around the house, sometimes.”

“Well, he found me,” Magnus says. 

Moira eyes him for a moment, and Magnus stares back, not knowing what she wants to see. “I won’t have any trouble from you, will I, Magnus?” she asks. 

“No!” Magnus says hotly, anger and embarrassment washing over him. Just because he’d been a gladiator—or is it because he’s not Roman? It’s not like the Romans have any self-restraint when it comes to slaves, at least in private. 

Moira’s mouth softens, and she touches his hand lightly. “I’m sorry,” she tells him. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I was a slave too. For my own peace of mind—“ 

Magnus swallows, and manages to nod tightly. “I understand." 

“I _have_ offended you,” Moira says, peering at him. “I do ask for your forgiveness.”

Forgiveness? What? Magnus has no idea why she would care, but at the moment he’d really like to test out whether that bed is as comfortable as it looks, so he says, “You have it,” and lets Moira precede him into the room. 

She lights the candle on the table from the lantern, and then says, “It’s not much, but it’s yours. Do you have any…?”

“I have a few belongings,” Magnus says. “I’ll need to retrieve them from the school tomorrow.” 

“All right,” she says. “Feel free to help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen, if I’m not cooking by the time you get up.”

“Thank you,” Magnus volunteers, when she’s halfway through the door, and Moira turns her head back. 

“You’re welcome,” she says. “Goodnight.”

Magnus strips off his tunic and loincloth and sandals by the light of the candle, but then blows it out and lies back on the bed, turning the events of the day over in his mind. It’s too much to take in; he can only hope that the future reveals the pattern of it. 

He must doze, or sleep, because he knows nothing else until there’s a hot hand stroking his collarbone, and warm breath in his ear.

Magnus opens his eyes and finds Carolos bent over him, his lips redder than ever in the candlelight, his tunic belted very loosely indeed. He smells wine on Carolos’ breath, and can’t stop himself wondering what else besides wine has reddened that mouth tonight. 

“No,” Carolos says cheerfully, continuing to stroke Magnus’ shoulder, “it was his imperial majesty’s pleasure to have my legs around his ears tonight. If only he knew how to use his sword as well as you do, Erik.” 

“Carolos,” Magnus breathes, but he doesn’t know what he wants to say next, particularly not with one of Carolos’ hands sliding from his shoulder up his neck into his hair, and the other stroking downward to his chest, and lower. Involuntarily, he lets out a moan.

Carolos smiles at him, practically batting his eyelashes, and then bends down so that he’s only inches from Magnus’ chest, draped over his torso. “I’d hoped, you know, but I was certain that loincloth was making your cock look bigger than it is,” he says conversationally, pressing his lips to Magnus’ throat. Magnus’ entire body heats instantly, as though he’s been thrust into a fire alive, and the gold necklace at Carolos’ throat trembles. 

“But I’ve never been so happy to be wrong,” he continues, pressing kisses to Magnus’ neck while his other hand strokes over Magnus’ hip. “Your phallus is magnificent, Erik, even mutilated—being fucked by you should ward off the evil eye for _months_ —“ 

Whether it’s the mention of the evil eye or the casual denigration of the sign of his faith as a mutilation, Magnus doesn’t know, but something in Carolos’ words brings him abruptly back to earth, faster than Icarus into the ocean. 

“Carolos!” he says, and braces his feet on the bed and sits up, tumbling Carolos half off him to the side. “Carolos, stop this. You’re drunk.” 

Carolos looks, for just the barest instant, hurt, and Magnus feels a hot flare of unhappiness, G-d, _why_ , he barely knows this boy, but then the flirtatious smile reappears. “Just because I’m drunk doesn’t mean I don’t want you,” Carolos says, cocking his head, and the poppy crown, now mostly wilted, slips further down his brow. 

He’s gorgeous, even with his makeup smudged and his perfumed curls limp with sweat, the smell of someone else’s sex drifting faintly through the air under the wine and the scented oils on his body. Magnus burns to take him into his arms and have what he sells to other men—and women too, Quintus had called him a _cinaedus_ —so casually. 

Right here in this bedchamber, he could have at no cost what the emperor, may his bones grind down to dust, pays good silver for.

“Carolos,” he says again, and gets Carolos’ wandering hands in both of his, gripping them tightly between their bodies. Carolos bites his lip—oh, torture—but he doesn’t struggle. That must be a learned response; Magnus can feel the tension thrumming through his frame, twin to the same in his own body, and there’s nothing at all effeminate about Carolos’ powerful square hands. “Carolos, I’ve just been freed. Will you let this be my choice? Will you let me say no?” 

_That_ clearly gets through to him, more deeply than Magnus honestly meant it. Carolos bites his lip again and tugs at his hands in Magnus’, folding them in his lap and looking down at them when Magnus lets him go. There’s a dull wash of color across his face, beyond the flush from the wine, and Magnus recognizes it as shame.

“I do apologize,” he says. “I just—I could feel that you wanted me, your thoughts are very forceful, Erik, and I wanted you too—“ _I’m not used to ignoring what people think about me, in this situation,_ he says silently, and Magnus sighs. He recognizes the ploy, but he can’t quite seem to be angry at this youth. 

“It’s all right,” he says instead. “I’m—not used to refusing, either.” _Or to people acting on my thoughts, rather than my deeds_ , he adds. Gladiators don’t really have a choice, no more than any slave does.

Carolos nods, but he doesn’t look up. “I’ll bid you goodnight, then,” he says, and stands. At the door, much like Moira, he turns back, and Magnus jerks his gaze up from the sight of the plush ass under his tunic to those blue eyes. “Erik—I’m glad you’re here.” 

“So am I,” Magnus manages. If the boy is willing to ignore that Magnus is still half-hard for him, the least he can do is be courteous, but the words bring just a hint of a more genuine smile to his face. Magnus absolutely does _not_ feel absurdly pleased about that. “Goodnight, Carolos.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prostitutes could be either slave or free, depending on their circumstances (principally whether they entered the profession of their own volition or were slaves pimped out by their owners). Regardless of legal status, all prostitutes had the social status of _infamia_ , i.e. possessing no social respectability, and even free prostitutes were more legally vulnerable than otherwise. 
> 
> Slaves had no right to their own persons and thus could neither give nor refuse sexual consent. Whatever their owners wanted to do to them--use them sexually themselves, prostitute them, etc--was legal. Gladiators were also legally slaves (and gladiator procurers were also called pimps), and also could not refuse consent. Self-restraint, both sexual and otherwise, was an old Roman virtue, but by the height of the empire it was honored more in the breach than in the observance, at least in private.
> 
> The ancient Greeks and Romans drank all wine watered, and considered unwatered wine barbaric; the customary Greek ratio was two parts water to one part wine, while Romans usually drank closer to half and half. 
> 
> The ancient world had a cult of the sacred phallus; phallus charms, statues of Priapus, and other sacred phallus objects abound, and were used to ward off the evil eye, particularly for male infants. (Soldiers also often had phallus-in-fist charms on their persons.) I'm not aware of any superstition that being fucked by an exceptionally large phallus would ward off the evil eye, but it seemed like the kind of flirtatious joke that Charles would make. 
> 
> One of the many reasons the Romans thought the Jews were strange was their practice of circumcision, which in their view mutilated the phallus and was thus barbaric. (Ancient operations to restore the foreskin are documented.) Monotheism was of course the other important reason the Romans didn't understand the Jews, and it didn't help that, after the death of Herod and the province of Judaea formally being incorporated into the empire, the province was notably unpeaceful and required the permanent presence of a full legion. The first major Jewish revolt (the First Roman Jewish War, 66-73 CE) against the Romans saw the destruction of Jerusalem and of the Second Temple, and the removal of its menorah as a victory trophy to the Templum Pacis in Rome itself. The second major Jewish revolt (the Second Roman-Jewish War, 132-36 CE), also known as the Bar Kokhba revolt, was precipitated by Hadrian's anti-Jewish policies, including outlawing circumcision and building a temple to Venus on the site of the Second Temple, and cost the Romans a full legion, the XXII Deiotariana, as well as hundreds of thousands of Jewish casualties. Hadrian's attempts to eradicate Judaism after the revolt included the dissolution of the province of Judaea into Syria Palaestina, the execution of Talmud scholars, and the burial of the sacred scroll on the Temple Mount. For these reasons, Hadrian is by far the most hated of the Roman emperors mentioned in Jewish sources. 
> 
> After the revolt, thousands of Jews were taken as prisoners of war and condemned to the gladiators or the beasts. In this fic, Erik was one of the former. 
> 
> The chapter title comes from Catullus 15, in which the poet asks his friend Aurelius to take care of his boyfriend Iuventus, but warns him to keep his cock out of him or else. I [translated it here](http://starlady.dreamwidth.org/483145.html).


	3. Verum id non impune tuli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus meets the household; Carolos asks him for a favor.

Magnus is so tired from his ordeal that he barely wakes an hour before dawn, disoriented for a moment before he remembers why and where he is. Carolos. The emperor. His freedom.

His freedom.

He doesn’t have to force himself out of bed in the hour before dawn to start the day regardless of his exhaustion. There’s no one who expects anything of him today, at least not immediately; he can take his ease.

When he wakes next, it’s perhaps the third hour after sunrise, judging from the slant of light falling through the wooden screen on his window. Someone’s been in his chamber while he slept, judging by the two fine tunics in the clothespress against the wall. The thought makes Magnus more than a little uneasy, but he tells himself that he’s a freedman now. If he asks, the people in Carolos’ household will stay out of his chamber while he sleeps.

His chamber. G-d.

Magnus dresses quickly—he needs a bath, but he’ll have to ask about that. He follows his memory and the scent of baking bread through the house into the kitchen, where he finds Moira tending the cooking fire and pitting olives.

“Good morning,” she says, and indicates a pot warming in the hearth. “There’s porridge with honey.”

“Good morning,” Magnus returns, his voice a little hoarse where his throat’s gone dry, and serves himself porridge and juice before taking a seat on the bench against the wall, watching her work. “Do you cook for the whole household?”

“Everyone helps,” she replies, which must be a yes. “We eat simply, and there’s not many of us.” Her hands are really remarkably deft with the cooking knife she’s using; the precision of her strokes is soothing to his metal-sense. “Carolos doesn’t entertain here, and the rest of us don’t need much luxury. We have time to take our ease.”

Magnus eats his porridge, and then says, “The baths—?”

Moira looks up at him, a little surprised. “The baths don’t open until the second hour after midday,” she says, and then blinks. “Oh. No, Magnus, we all go to the _balnea_ in the neighborhood, except Carolos—he goes to the baths of Trajan. Maybe he’ll ask you to attend him. Armando doesn’t care for it.”

The thought of attending Carolos in the baths is both enticing and mortifying, but Magnus doesn’t say anything about _that_. Instead he says, “If he likes. Where is Carolos now?”

Moira chuckles. “Still asleep, I’ll wager.”

“Asleep?” Magnus repeats. The workday is half over already.

She shrugs, then sets aside the chopped olives in a bowl and covers them with a cloth, wiping the knife with the edge of it. The cast of her shoulders says that she’s not entirely at ease. “He comes home late when he has engagements in the evening, particularly at the imperial residence. And he never takes clients before the third hour of the afternoon.”

Using one’s body every day does require a healthy amount of rest, but more than that, Magnus is staggered by the amount of leisure Carolos has. Ever since he became a gladiator, leisure has been decidedly scarce in his life.

“I’ll show you the house now, if you like,” Moira says, with the air of changing the subject, and Magnus follows her out of the room.

The house is, as he’d thought last night, modest, but the frescoes and the furnishings look expensive, if not staggeringly so—clearly Carolos is doing well in his profession, though he’s not trying to flaunt it. _No,_ Magnus’ mind whispers, _he flaunts other things._

_As well he should._

In the atrium they come across another woman, this one clearly younger than Moira, maybe twenty or so—a few years older than Carolos. Moira introduces her as Angela, and she gives him a nod.

“I’m Magnus,” he says, and Angela smiles.

“I’m sure,” she quips, and Magnus feels himself blushing a little. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, but hearing it from a woman, without any trace of shame, is something else.

Clearly everyone in Carolos’ household is a little unusual. “I’m Carolos’ maid,” Angela says, taking pity on him. Given the art with which her dark hair is bound up over her brows—with her brown skin, she must be Libyan, or Egyptian—Magnus supposes Carolos has made a sensible choice. “And you are—?”

“I was a gladiator until yesterday afternoon,” Magnus says honestly. “I don’t rightly know what Carolos wants me for yet.”

She and Moira exchange a glance, and then Angela smiles again, wickedly. “Well, let me know when you find out.” She glances up at the skylight, judging the fall of the sun. “I should wake Carolos, actually.”

“I’ll just give Magnus the rest of the tour,” Moira says, and Magnus follows her lead to escape.

They find the household’s other member, an Ethiopian named Armando, in the back of the house. He and Magnus give each other friendly nods, and for once there’s no innuendo about what Magnus is doing here or why. Magnus shouldn’t find that as comforting as he does.

They wind back up in the kitchen, and Moira sets him to doing some of the more laborious tasks she’d been storing up. It’s obvious that the household could use at least another person or two to give the others more leisure, but Carolos clearly has some opposition to owning slaves. That must be another reason he doesn’t entertain much in his own house; it’s too strange.

In Magnus’ experience, being owners themselves, most Romans never really think about what being owned feels like.

“Who carries Carolos’ litter?” Magnus asks Moira when he takes a break.

She traces an curve in the flour on the table where she’s making bread—it looks like half of an almond, or the keel of a boat, but she leaves the drawing unfinished. “His clients send theirs for him, if he entertains at their residences.” Her tone is stiff, and she punches the dough with more force than necessary.

“You don’t approve,” Magnus says, and she looks up at him.

“And you do?” she challenges.

“I’m certainly not going to judge what someone has done to survive amongst the Romans,” Magnus says, looking down at his own hands. It’s easy to see, in his mind’s eye, his fingers gripping his sword.

His sword. He needs to claim his few belongings from the school today.

Moira takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I would have thought you’d agree that there are more important things than the riches of this world, Magnus.”

Magnus stares at her, and she pales. “Never mind,” she says quickly. “I just think he doesn’t have to do—-this. He shouldn’t have to, at any rate.”

The tension is broken when Carolos speaks in both their minds. Magnus startles badly, nearly dropping the bowl he’s holding, but Moira doesn’t react. He can only hope that he’ll get used to it eventually too. _Moira, do you mind if I borrow our new friend?_

“Not at all, Carolos,” Moira replies out loud, glancing at Magnus. He gives her a nod, and steps out, following the brush of _I’m in my chamber_ in his thoughts. He barely has time to hope that it isn’t a request he’ll have to refuse before he steps over the threshold and sees Carolos sitting on a bench on one side of the room, the other half of which is dominated by a large, luxurious bed with rumpled covers.

There’s a mirror set up in front of a screened window that gives, it looks like, onto a sealed-in lightwell with flowers growing in it, and the bench Carolos is sitting on is set in front of the dresser that holds the mirror. For his part, Magnus can only stop and stare: Carolos is nude save for a cloth laid over his lap, the ends trailing down off the bench doing nothing to hide the curves of his ass. That ass is just as perfect as Magnus had imagined when it was covered by the tunic last night, and the light musculature of his back, rippling beneath miles of pale skin as he stretches, dries Magnus’ mouth.

Carolos turns and smiles at him over his shoulder. He has his left arm extended as Angela rubs some kind of ointment into his pale skin. “Good morning, my friend,” he says, and drops his hand so that Angela can move to his other arm, her hands on him gentle but efficient. “I wanted to ask you a favor.”

 _Anything_ , Magnus thinks. He hopes Carolos isn’t listening. Carolos can’t be listening, or he wouldn’t be smiling at Magnus like that, as if he had heard nothing of his lecherous thoughts. “Good morning,” he says. “What did you want?” Fortunately, he manages to sound courteous, not rudely abrupt.

Angela lets go of Carolos’ arm and removes a rolled bundle from a drawer, unrolling it on the dresser to expose two straight razors. Magnus had felt them already. “Angela prefers not to have a razor near my face if she can help it,” Carolos says, smiling up at Magnus when he comes to stand next to the dresser. “Given your gift, I imagine it wouldn’t be too much trouble for you to give me a shave?”

“Can’t you have that done at the baths?” Magnus asks, and then what Carolos has said catches up with him. “My gift—“ He turns to stare at Angela, but she smiles.

“Watch this,” she says, and reaches her hand back behind her neck to do something with the fabric of her tunic—hold it away, evidently, for in the next instant a pair of the most delicate filigree wings, almost like those of a dragonfly, extend from her back.

“You can fly?” Magnus asks, numb, but Angela shakes her head, folding her wings back down.

“Not in the city, no.” She glances at Carolos, who reaches out and squeezes her fingers. “I’ll get you a basin.”

“To answer your question, I shave before I go to the baths,” Carolos says when Angela has gone. “No one wants to see a _cinaedus_ with stubble. I’d look too much like a man! It would be terrible for business.”

“I’m surprised you need to shave at all, at your age,” Magnus says, but he folds the cloth around Carolos’ neck and takes up the brush to spread the oil onto his face and neck. Determinedly, he keeps his eyes off Carolos’ chest, and the pert pink nipples that crown it. There too, he’s lightly muscled, trim and gorgeous, but Magnus also notes, with some surprise, what is unmistakably a tattoo just below the point of his left shoulder—a circle, with what might be a Roman letter in it. At some point in his life, then, he was a prisoner, or a slave.

His own prisoner's tattoo, an X inside a circle on the inside of his left arm, seems to itch a little. He isn't surprised, but it's not something he'd choose to have in common with this boy.

Carolos’ eyes slide shut, but his lips quirk. “How old do you think I am?” he asks, and Magnus can’t help but raise an eyebrow.

“Seventeen,” he says, making sure he’s covered all of Carolos’ skin with the oil. “Eighteen at most.”

Carolos grins, and then he’s laughing, looking back up at Magnus like he’s made a really excellent joke. “Seventeen! How flattering, Erik, but you are quite mistaken. I’m twenty-four.”

Twenty-four. He’s only two years younger than Magnus himself. It shouldn’t matter, but somehow it does.

To cover his own confusion Magnus takes up the razor, feeling its edge with his power to make sure there are no nicks in the blade before he sets it against Carolos’ skin. At his frown, Carolos raises one dark eyebrow, and then his eyes widen when Magnus runs his thumb along the edge of the blade. “Are you—“ he asks, and Magnus makes an assenting noise.

“It was dull,” he says, and Carolos smiles.

“That’s marvelous, Erik,” he says, and he sounds like he even means it. Magnus’ cheeks burn. _I can do other things,_ he wants to say, but it sounds like vainglory in his own head and would sound worse out loud. Instead, he gives Carolos a meaningful nod, and he tips his head back, exposing his throat to Magnus’ blade.

He doesn’t need to touch Carolos for this, mostly, which given what their nearness is doing to him is probably for the best. Magnus wonders whether Carolos realizes that he can feel through the metal as though it’s his own fingers on Carolos’ smooth soft skin, running the razor slowly and gently down Carolos’ throat, his cheeks, carefully scraping over his jaw in small precise strokes. He shaves Carolos’ upper lip last and then gently reaches out, turning Carolos’ head from one side to the other with a finger against his chin. He hasn’t missed any spots.

“Finished,” he says, once he clears his throat, and Carolos’ eyes open again and he smiles. Magnus can’t think the last time he knew someone who smiled as much as Carolos, but then, being charming and open with his affections is part of his profession. It’s no surprise that he’s good at it. The surprise is how much Magnus feels it affecting him.

“Thank you, my friend,” he says, taking up the towel from around his neck and carefully dabbing at a last few spots of oil. He puts one hand to his own cheek and smiles. “I do believe this is the best shave I’ve ever had. You’ll have to do this every day. If you don’t mind.” He smiles up at Magnus, long lashes framing those huge blue eyes, and Magnus swallows.

“Of course,” he says. “You’re welcome.” He can’t seem to look away, though he _should_ , but luckily Angela enters with a tray, which she deposits on the small table next to the bed.

“Breakfast, Carolos,” she announces. “And there’s a message for you.”

“Thank you, Angela,” Carolos says, turning his head to look at her, and the spell is broken. Magnus steps back, taking a deep breath to calm himself, but he hasn’t been dismissed and he lingers, curious, while Carolos takes a note from Angela’s hands. He laughs when he reads whatever is written on it. “Did the messenger wait?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says, and he nods.

“Tell him that I will happily receive his master two hours before sundown,” he says. “The usual fee.”

Angela nods and departs, and Magnus looks after her. When he turns back, he finds Carolos looking at him.

“Moira’s not happy about what you do,” Magnus blurts, and then he hastily turns his eyes to the fresco adorning the wall next to the bed—depicting, appropriately enough, Jupiter and Ganymede—when Carolos stands, the cloth over his lap sliding away. He keeps his eyes averted while Carolos ties his loincloth.

“Moira’s principles are peculiar,” Carolos says, turning not towards Magnus but to his wardrobe, from which he selects another tunic in the Greek style, belting it up a little higher than is decent, as Magnus sees when he finally turns his head back. “But as she is my oldest friend, she is entitled to her opinions.”

“Principles?” he repeats.

“She follows the slain carpenter,” Carolos says absently. “What do they call themselves—Christians. She is only concerned about me, and she knows that I’m the one who will make my choices.”

There’s more than a hint of steel in those words, and Magnus nods. “I see.” He forebears to mention that the Christians, strange and recalcitrant as they are, are a proscribed cult. Everyone in the household really does have some kind of secret.

“Do you?” Carolos asks, sitting back down on the bench to fasten his sandals. He looks up at Magnus through his lashes as he does so, his back a smooth perfect line. “Do you share her disapproval, my friend?”

“It’s your body,” Magnus says, and winces at how callous he sounds. “If you’re asking whether I have religious convictions against it, Carolos, the answer is no.”

At that Carolos does look faintly surprised. “But I thought you—“

Magnus says, somewhat awkwardly, “I am Jewish. But—it has been a long time since I was in Judaea.” _Since I believed_ , he doesn’t say, and Carolos nods slowly.

“I knew I was right,” he says, grinning.

Magnus rolls his eyes. “You don’t know everything.”

“Yes I do,” Carolos says, and taps his temple. “I do know everything about you, Magnus.”

Magnus says nothing; he wants so badly to believe it, for it to be true, when really it can’t be. If Carolos knew everything about him he wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be allowed to stand this close to Carolos. He’s far too dangerous for that.

“Will you accompany me to the baths later?” Carolos asks. “You’ll have to act as my servant, so you won’t be able to go to the library while you wait for me, and it may be dull, but—“

“It’s no trouble,” Magnus interrupts. “I can’t read, in any case.”

“You can’t read!” Carolos exclaims, and then for some reason he blushes, light pink spilling across his cheeks. “Not even Greek?” Magnus shakes his head. He knows his Hebrew letters, but even in Judaea they weren’t very useful. “Well, if you’re going to live in Rome you ought to know how to read Latin and Greek. Can you speak Latin?” he asks, switching to that language, away from the Greek they’ve been speaking.

“ _Certe_ ,” Magnus says, though he doesn’t know the educated language that Carolos is using, with its precise verb endings and careful cases. The Latin he knows is the Latin of the street, the kind equestrians and senators turn up their noses at and wouldn’t be caught dead speaking. “But Carolos, how am I to learn to read?”

“I’ll teach you, of course,” Carolos says, sounding faintly affronted. “How else?”

Magnus opens his mouth and shuts it again. That Carolos would _teach_ him, of all things— “I’m sure you have better things to do,” he says feebly, but Carolos waves a hand.

“I am at my leisure for the most part, when I’m not entertaining,” he says, “and it’s my education that attracts clients.” _Oh, like your mouth has nothing to do with it_ , Magnus thinks to himself. “Please, Erik, let me teach you. It’s the least I can do, truly. Please?”

How he ever turned Carolos down last night, Magnus doesn’t know, given what the look on Carolos’ face is doing to him now. “All right,” he says gruffly, and when Carolos smiles at him again, he very tentatively smiles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Magnus" of course means "big." 
> 
> Greek was the _lingua franca_ of daily life and of provincial administration in the eastern half of the empire; although all educated Romans knew Greek, imperial administration was conducted in Latin, which was also the language of the common people in the western half of the empire. The divergence between the vernacular and elite registers of the language that began under the empire, about which we frustratingly know very little, was the beginning of the process that led to the emergence of the Romance family of languages. Aramaic was the daily language of common people in Judaea; the Gospels were written in _koine_ Greek (as opposed to the Attic Greek which educated elites had adopted) in order to reach more people.
> 
> The Roman state's problem with Christians was not their worship of a strange new god per se but their consequent refusal to participate in the ceremonies and oaths of the imperial cult, which by the 2ndC CE was an ideological and social glue that bound the empire together. Official persecution was at this point sporadic. Pliny the Younger exchanged a famous series of letters (96 & 97) with Trajan asking what to do with a group of Christians who had been identified to him while he served as governor of a province in Asia Minor; Trajan's reply was to punish those who would not repent, but not to actively hunt down any others. 
> 
> Title from Catullus 99.


	4. O furum optime balneariorum

At the second hour after noon Armando finds Erik in Carolos’ modest library, bent over a wax tablet, laboriously copying and recopying the first seven letters in the Roman alphabet and muttering words that started with each letter to himself under Carolos’ bright gaze. A is for Augustus, B is for buxifer, C is for Caesar…

“Magnus?” Armando asks, and Erik looks up. “I’m about to head to the baths. Carolos, would you…?” 

Carolos looks up, flashing that devastating smile at him. Erik busies himself with setting down his stylus and reforming the wax to hide his expression. “No, thank you, Armando, I believe Magnus has agreed to accompany me to the Baths of Trajan later.” 

Erik nods, turning to hand Carolos the tablet and stylus. “Keep them, my friend,” Carolos says; “you can practice on your own when you have leisure.” 

“Thank you,” Erik says, “I will,” and then he looks at Armando. “I’ll just be a moment,” he tells the other man, who nods. 

“I’ll meet you in the atrium,” he says, and Erik heads to his own chamber. He ought to have a strongbox, he thinks, but for the moment he counts most of his coins out of his purse and ties them into a corner of the bedclothes, tucking the bundle under the mattress. That accomplished, he takes up his towel and fresh clothes and finds Armando in the atrium, and they head out of the house’s doors into the street. A few turns and the city is bustling around them, but it’s not even ten minutes before Armando has brought them to the door of a neighborhood bathhouse. The attendant, looking bored, takes their money, and Armando leads Erik inside. He must catch Erik’s nervousness, because he gives Erik a conspiratorial grin. “Just do what I do,” he says as they enter the dressing room. “This is supposed to be enjoyable.” 

Enjoyable. Right. It’s been years since Erik had the full Roman bath experience, but he enjoyed it the few times he did. He lives in Rome now; this is part of his life. 

He is at least used to exercising every day, and after they strip out of their clothes and sandals—Armando pays one of the attendants to watch their belongings—they head to the yard and oil their bodies. Erik lifts weights and runs, while Armando goes several bouts of wrestling with a pale-haired, excitable young man. 

When they’re finished, they don bath sandals and head into the _tepidarium_ , where they submit to being scraped by the bath attendants with strigils, removing the dirt and oil. When they’re clean, they both sink into the mildly warm water with pleased sighs, letting it relax their muscles. It’s early yet, and for the moment they are actually alone. 

“How long have you known Carolos?” Erik asks eventually. He tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling; the fresco depicting Venus and nymphs is frankly second-class, but then, this is a fairly humble bathhouse from all appearances. 

Armando turns his hand over in the water. “It’s been—about four years now, I think,” he says. “He was here in Rome when we met, with a formidable reputation already. He purchased me from my previous master and gave me my freedom the next day.” 

A vendor passes by, hawking cups of wine, and Armando waves him over and buys two, handing one to Erik. “To your success, and to your liberty,” he says, lifting his cup, and Erik echoes the gesture. The wine is cheap but pleasant, giving him visions of vines ripening in the sun. 

“Did he say why?” Erik asks, looking into his cup. He can make out his reflection on the surface of the wine; he looks…calm. 

Armando sips his wine. “You’ve seen his tattoo,” he says, lowering his voice. The bath is beginning to fill up, and it’s unlikely that their conversation will travel far amidst the increasing noise. “I assume he was a slave himself too, at some point. He said he knew what it was like, to have one’s choices taken away.” 

Erik turns his arm so that his own tattoo is hidden against his body. He’s not ashamed of it, but it would be vastly preferable to get out of here without being subject to a scene. Their conversation turns to other things, and when they finish their wine they head into the hot bath of the caldarium and immediately begin sweating profusely. They last about twenty minutes, taking frequent breaks to cool their heads and shoulders with the cool water from the fountain at the center, and then return to the _tepidarium_ , which by now has some drunkard singing in it. They don’t stay long before heading out to take a cold dip in the _frigidarium_. 

The bath attendants anoint them with perfume after they dry off, and then they put on their clean clothes—Erik gives the attendant a tip that’s equal to his fee, in gratitude for not stealing their belongings—and leave, walking past the exercise yard on their way out. The men and boys in the yard are playing a ball game. 

“We can play tomorrow, if you like,” Armando says, and Erik starts; his thoughts had gone far away without his even realizing it. 

“I would like that,” he says, and at the stall outside the bathhouse he buys them both bags of nuts and hard-boiled eggs. They eat as they walk, in a companionable silence. It’s—pleasant, Erik realizes, not to have to know, however distantly, that one might well wind up killing one’s companion in the near future. 

When they get home Carolos is waiting. Erik follows Armando’s directions about the towels and their old clothing, and then he takes Carolos’ bundle of bath items from him and they set off back into the streets. They walk to the Baths of Trajan, near the Flavian amphitheater and the Ludus Magnus, and Erik stops walking, unconsciously, when they turn the final corner and are confronted by the grandeur of the baths. 

Carolos stops and looks back at him. “You’ve never seen the Baths before, Erik?” 

Erik shakes his head. _I’ve only just arrived in Rome, Carolos_. He starts walking again, and they make their way through the crowded street to the bath entrance, where Carolos pays for both of them. “These baths—they must be several city blocks.” The complex is huge, and two stories tall, it looks like. 

“Someone told me once that there are smaller colony cities,” Carolos says absently as they wind their way through the crowded, marble-floored corridors towards the dressing room, stopping to exchange greetings with a good number of men—and women too, Erik sees, most of them much better-dressed than in the neighborhood bathhouse he and Armando visited. Many of them give Charles the three kisses of greeting. Most of them ignore Erik entirely, which suits him just fine. One of the reasons so many gladiators refuse their freedom when they’re offered it is that they don’t know what they would do otherwise, but Erik has found a place, and he’d prefer, as much as he can, to leave that life behind. 

In the dressing room Charles disrobes, and lifts an eyebrow at Erik when he doesn’t immediately do the same. “You’ll look ridiculous wearing clothes in the baths, Erik,” he says, bending over to undo the strap of his sandal. “And by extension, so will I.” 

“Sorry,” Erik mutters, and takes off his own clothes. At least the excuse of nudity gives him leave to, unobtrusively, stare at Carolos’ naked form in the exercise-yard, playing a few rounds of ball games with several older men. Carolos’ cock is shorter than Erik’s, of course, but it looks pleasantly thick and it’s nestled in a close-cropped thatch of dark hair that quickly gives way to the glory of his pale thighs. Erik imagines biting Carolos there, imagines his pretty moans as Erik swallows down his pretty cock, imagines Carolos’ red lips wrapped around his own shaft. 

He doesn’t dare imagine much more, given that he’s naked, but Carolos, now doing some showy acrobatics, doesn’t seem to notice. By the time he beckons Erik to follow him into the baths proper there’s nothing in Erik’s face or his body that would tell anyone any different. 

Erik gets another shock when a naked woman half-stands from the _tepidarium_ pool and beckons Carolos over. “Carolos!” she says, her golden hair pinned up above her head in some complicated arrangement. _It’s the latest style_ , Carolos says in his head. _Aemilia Frigoris is never anything but fashionable_. 

“Aemilia!” Carolos says, and settles down beside her in the water; Erik joins the other slaves and servants standing around against the walls. Partly so that he has something to do besides stare at Carolos, Erik begins trying to read the letters of the graffiti on the wall nearest him. “How lovely to see you, my dear.” 

“And you as well, my dear Carolos,” she says, smiling at him. It’s not precisely a warm smile, and Erik feels a spike of instinctive concern in his gut. Aemilia Frigoris is beautiful, but in his experience of Roman ladies, it’s the prettiest ones who are often the most dangerous. 

_Aemilia is one of my most loyal patrons_ , Carolos says in his mind. _She means me no harm, Erik._

Given that the Frigoris woman looks like she wants to eat Carolos alive, Erik supposes that they have very different ideas of “harm,” but he says nothing. Carolos and Aemilia talk for a good while, and Carolos is about to cross into the _caldarium_ when she puts a ringed hand on his arm. “Join me for dinner?” she asks. 

“I’m already engaged, Aemilia,” Carolos says, smiling and looking apologetic simultaneously, “but some other time, certainly.” 

“I’ll look forward to it,” Aemilia says, trailing her hand down his arm. “And so will my friends.” 

Carolos doesn’t stay long in the _caldarium_ ; given his longer hair, even tied back and pinned up as it is, he can’t dump the cold water of the fountain over his head the way Erik could. But he does stay long enough to be recognized and greeted by another man who looks about Erik's age and who is surrounded by a gaggle of servants, followers, and hangers-on. “Carolos!” the man shouts over the noise of the other bathers, some of whom make irritable gestures in his direction. “Carolos, my lily!” 

“Antonius!” Carolos exclaims, and wades over; the group of followers shift around so that Carolos can sit down tucked up next to Antonius, who throws an arm around his shoulders. “How good to see you, my friend.” 

“And you! Come to dinner with me, honey-sweet,” Antonius says, and gestures for a vendor to pour another cup of wine; a servant presses an entirely too large coin on the man in payment, and the master himself waves away the vendor’s stammered offer of time to make the proper change. 

Carolos drinks deeply of the wine and giggles when Antonius’ hand drifts down to pinch his hip. “I’d love to, Antonius, though I have an engagement this afternoon.” 

“An engagement?” Antonius asks, teasing. “Who’s the lucky bastard this time?” 

Carolos puts his nose in the air. “You know I never tell.” 

“Well, I shall just have to ask you at dinner, then,” Antonius says. “Can you come at sundown?” Carolos drains his winecup and nods, and Antonius smiles. “Excellent! You’d best move along, my lily, you’re looking boiled.” It’s true; Carolos’ fair skin is all over pinked by the hot water. Antonius leers at him. “We wouldn’t want you limp.” 

Carolos laughs. “You’ll find that I’m never limp, Antonius.” He stands, and Erik accompanies him back to the temperate room, where he sinks into the cooler water with a sigh, his eyelids fluttering shut. _Antonius is a very rich patron, and a good man_ , he explains. _I couldn’t turn him down_. 

_Well, and why should you want to?_ Erik thinks back at him, and Carolos’ eyes open at that and he half-turns to look at Erik. He holds Erik’s gaze for an instant, and then snorts with laughter and turns back. 

_You ought not keep that sense of humor so hidden, my friend,_ he thinks, trailing a hand through the water. 

_I share it with the people who are worthy of it_ , Erik tells him, putting a bit of pomposity in his thoughts to cover the sincerity of the words, and Carolos chuckles again. 

They make their way through the crowds into the frigidarium and thence to the masseur, who rubs Carolos down with scented oils and makes him groan in a variety of—for Erik—inspirational ways. On the street outside Carolos buys them both sausages, and they shove their way through the crowds heading towards the wine shops and brothels located nearby. 

“I’m sorry we couldn’t stay,” Carolos says apologetically as they walk. “We’ll spend longer tomorrow; there’s a lecture in one of the libraries that I’d like to hear.” 

“It was interesting,” Erik says, which is true as far as it goes; maybe one day he’ll even be able to make out all of the graffiti—some of it appeared to be written in Greek. 

Carolos eyes him. “I hope you don’t—you know I don’t _think_ of you as my servant, Erik,” he says at last. “And truly, you’re free to go; I’ll give you what help I can, even, it’s only that—“ 

“Carolos,” Erik interrupts, “it’s fine. I wouldn’t know what to do with my leisure. And I certainly don’t have enough money to live on my own forever. I’m happy to be part of your household.” 

“Oh,” Carolos says, and Erik wants to kiss away the surprised look in his blue eyes. He smiles, unaccountably shy. “I’m glad, Erik.” 

_So am I,_ Erik projects, and they walk the rest of the way to Carolos’ house in easy silence. Once there, Erik deposits Carolos’ old clothes and towel in the basket, then restores the flasks of oil to their proper place, the perfume of Carolos’ massage oil still trailing through the air. Erik counts a few more coins into his purse and is about to leave the house for the Ludus Magnus when an older man with skin as dark as Armando’s, even darker from the contrast with his toga, steps through the door. He gives Erik a nod. “Is Carolos about?” he asks, and Erik swallows. 

“I’m here, Nicolaus,” Carolos calls from across the atrium, and Nicolaus smiles and removes his sandals. He crosses the atrium and gives Carolos the three kisses of greeting, and then a fourth one, none too chaste, on the lips. When they break apart, Carolos smiles at him. “It’s good to see you, my friend.” He doesn’t look away from his client, but Erik hears his voice in his head. _Nicolaus is a dear friend, Erik, he’s a former soldier and I trust him. Go off on your errand._

It’s a dismissal, and Erik heads out the door into the street, thinking as he walks. He wouldn’t expect Carolos to renew his offer so soon; the whole point of being a _meretrix_ like Carolos—technically a _meretor_ , maybe, he’ll have to ask—is that one can choose the people one brings to one’s bed. But it does give him an unaccustomed moment of regret; if he’d known that Carolos really had only wanted him because he was drunk, he might have tendered him a different answer last night. 

He retraces most of his steps towards the Baths of Trajan, but turns southwest towards the amphitheater. As he walks, it’s possible to see glimpses of the Palatine Hill, with the imperial palace crouched on it like an eagle on a crag. Beyond the Ludus Magnus, which is located next to the amphitheater, rises the platform of the Temple of the Divine Claudius. Some of the Romans Erik had met at the training camp had spoken of its gardens with delight. 

His presence at the training camp provokes a wariness that hadn’t been there not a day earlier. Erik has his freedom now, and now that the flush of victory has faded, he and his former comrades are set apart. He retrieves his few belongings—the main thing is his strongbox with his winnings, and his sword—and makes his farewells, wishing his former fellows good fortune. 

The mental knowledge of the city that Carolos had pressed into his mind the night before comes in handy, and on impulse Erik walks back along the wall separating the imperial fora from the Subura district. It’s covered with graffiti, as are many of the non-sacred surfaces he’s seen in Rome. People here are not shy about expressing their opinions. 

Nicolaus—Furius, Moira tells him—leaves shortly after Erik returns, looking quite self-satisfied. Erik occupies himself drilling his alphabet, but a few minutes later he feels Carolos’ mental summons. 

He finds Carolos lying on his bed, languid and dreamy, the poppy crown tossed carelessly to one side and a sheen of sweat cooling on his skin. A twist of the bedclothes hides his cock, but otherwise he’s as naked as he was in the baths, with telltale red marks scattered across his chest and hips. “Ah, Erik,” Carolos says, lifting his head, when Erik enters the room. “I wanted to ask—would you like to accompany me to Antonius’ dinner party? I need someone to attend me.” 

“Do you wish me to accompany you?” Erik asks, taking the seat on the bench and facing him. Carolos rolls over and props his head on his right elbow, his other hand trailing idly over his stomach. Erik forces himself to look up at Carolos’ face. 

“Well, I need someone to do so,” he says at last, and bites his lip. “It's indecent not to have a servant attend you while you're dining. And--not at Antonius', but there may be other—engagements at which I’d prefer having someone with me in the house.” 

The idea of anyone hurting Carolos makes Erik’s blood boil, but that was all in the past, he tells himself; he’s here now, and he won’t let it happen, not ever again. “Will you make me a promise, Carolos?” he asks, and Carolos meets his eyes, tongue darting out to lick his lower lip. 

Erik hasn’t had any particular belief in any god for years now, but it’s hard not to feel that the Romans’ Cupid is toying with him. “Of course, Erik,” Carolos says, looking at him. “What?” 

“That you’ll let me accompany you,” Erik says steadily, "to your engagements," and Carolos blinks. 

“Oh,” he says. “Oh. Of course, Erik. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Buxifer_ is a bit of a Classics in-joke--it's a _hapax legomenon_ , a word that only occurs once in surviving sources, from Catullus 3, meaning "box-bearing." (Not all _hapax legomena_ are so easily resolved.)
> 
> I've been relying on Garrett Fagan's _Bathing in Public in the Roman World_ for much of this. If you have the chance to experience public bath culture, you totally should. (I've been in Finland and in Japan, and it's pretty great.)
> 
> I'm sort of fudging the Roman naming conventions--although the praenomen/nomen/cognomen naming system for men is most well-known, at this point in the imperial period polynomy was in full swing, but it's too much work to adapt Marvel characters into it, at least for now. Hopefully Charles' patrons' identities are clear regardless of the fact that I didn't come up with _cognomina_ for them. 
> 
> I've had too much alcohol to go into what the Romans thought about what we now call "race" at the moment. Suffice it for now to say that it was different, and in many respects the salient binary was civilized/barbarian (and, particularly in the years beginning after this fic, Roman/Other), not skin color per se. (In less cosmopolitan places than Rome, however, people would still have reacted superstitiously to truly black-skinned people like Darwin and Fury.)
> 
> Title from Catullus 33, with even less relevance than usual. Eventually the chapter titles will be from Martial, I predict.


	5. Quod spirat tenera malum mordente puere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carolos and Magnus attend Antonius' dinner party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we're back! I was, believe it or not, held up for a while by the Roman social ideology of blow jobs, and then I got distracted by ancient dildoes. I can't promise regular updates, but I can promise that this fic is definitely not abandoned.
> 
> Also, the very end of chapter four has been edited slightly.

Just as Carolos said, Antonius’ litter arrives for him before the dinner hour, borne by six handsome slaves. Magnus precedes Carolos out the door and falls in with the litter-bearers as they lower it for Carolos to take his seat, flashing his shapely calves as he does so. He’s taken the time to redo his appearance, and he looks perfect again, his chiton belted up and his bracelets and arm-cuff flashing gold. The poppy crown, freshly plucked, is firmly nestled amongst his perfumed curls; he would not look out of place at one of the emperor’s temples to Antinous, whether as a painting on a wall or on the cult statue’s plinth.

They walk south and east across the city to a stupefyingly huge mansion, lit up with torches and lamps as though money were no object whatsoever. When he and Carolos enter the atrium, which boasts a fountain with a statue of Eros for its centerpiece and tiled mosaics of a naval battle at some sort, Magnus can’t help but stare. Only when they start across it does he realize that the floor is meant to depict the Battle of Actium, the future Emperor Augustus triumphant at the bow of a trireme and the defeated Antony and Cleopatra readying to kill themselves at the stern of another.

They follow a slave through that atrium through a series of rooms, each as grandly appointed as the last—some rooms done all in one expensive colored marble, while others combine multiple costly stones, and every room is adorned with mosaics, frescoes, statues. At length the sounds of a party begin to make themselves heard through the halls, and the slave leads them into a torchlit atrium that gives onto a beautiful night garden, itself lit with torches in sconces scattered about. The man from the baths, Antonius, looks up over his shoulder when the slave announces Carolos’ name and springs up from his place on the lowest couch with a smile.

“Carolos! I wondered where you’d gotten to,” he cries, giving Carolos the three kisses of greeting and leading him to the place at his right, at the head of the lowest couch. Magnus recognizes some of the other guests from the baths, but others, such as the handsome Ethiopian man on the middle couch and the woman with red-gold hair in the lowest place, next to Antonius, are new. He doesn’t need Carolos’ mental prompting to know that his place is next to the couch on which Carolos lies, propping himself up on his left elbow.

It’s early yet, but the dinner party is already in full swing; Antonius pours Carolos a full five measures of wine—“It’s Falernian!” he brags, and Carolos toasts him with a wide smile—and the conversation resumes, a debate about the latest races at the Circus Maximus that Magnus cannot follow. Instead, unobtrusively, he watches the other guests and their slaves while the first course—the proverbial eggs, done up in the form of a tart—is served, by a crew of servants whose pale green chitons leave even less to the imagination than Carolos’ and whose choreographed movements would do Terpsichore proud.

 _They’re meant to be alluring_ , Carolos remarks in his mind; he turns his head and hands Magnus a piece of tart, broken off from his own portion. _Just wait until you see their acrobatics, later_. He passes Magnus his wine cup, and Magnus drinks, not too deeply, before handing the wine cup back. He keeps to himself the thought that Carolos far surpasses them.

The party is everything Magnus has heard about Roman luxury. He loses count of the courses at a dozen, his thoughts muddled by the wine that Carolos is continually giving him from his own cup. None of the other guests are so solicitous of their servants, but it’s not just that Carolos is thinking of him—although there’s a flush to his cheeks and a thrilling sparkle to his eyes, Carolos is nowhere near as drunk as the rest of them. Even as Antonius leads the way to true drunkenness, Carolos remains only pleasantly intoxicated, judging by the tone of his thoughts in Magnus’ head. Magnus takes the portions of the rich food that Carolos passes him, and endeavors not to show, either in his body or in his mind, the warmth that those thoughts bring him.

Time passes between each course as the guests discuss politics, gossip, and poetry, at one point around the ninth course even reciting it themselves. Antonius, leaning on his elbow, is drunk enough to run his free hand over Carolos’ flank before he straightens and begins to declaim.

“ _Quod spirat tenera malu mordente puella,_  
 _Quod de Corycio quae venit aura croco;_  
 _Vinea quod primis floret cum cana racemis_ …”

Carolos’ blush has deepened, and the rest of the guests are laughing and exchanging significant glances. Magnus doesn’t know the poem, and it’s only when Antonius recites the last lines (“such, Diadumenus, is the perfume of your kisses, cruel boy. What if you were to give them in their fulness, unstintingly?”) that he gets the joke—or perhaps it’s a request, for when he’s finished Carolos leans over and kisses Antonius full on the lips, to the applause of the company. _It’s Martial_ , Carolos says in his head, sipping his wine, when he’s let Antonius go. .

 _Ah_ , Magnus manages.

The acrobats, who perform before the final course is served, are indeed as alluring as promised. Accompanied by two lyre players, who produce a composition in an energetic mode, they tumble and turn, blatantly erotic as their bodies sway to the beat. Magnus watches their exertions, aware of Carolos and Antonius exchanging a weighted glance behind him like a hand on the back of his neck. He barely tastes the final course that Carolos slips him, some kind of honeyed apple and fig confection.

The dinner continues after the final course has been served, of course, though conversation gradually begins to falter, and when Antonius stands up, rolling his shoulders, and waves to his guests to continue without him, it’s an unmistakable signal that the evening is nearing its conclusion. Carolos draws himself to his feet with silent grace a minute or two after Antonius departs, pressing a _Stay here, please, Erik_ into his mind. No one but the vivacious redhead who shared their couch, Piper, seems to notice his exit, and she is compelled to remain until the last guest takes their leave, since apparently she is mistress here.

When she stands, it’s apparently a signal to the heretofore unseen slaves, who enter the atrium and begin restoring the room to spotlessness. Magnus stands too, uncertain what to do with himself, and Piper’s eyes flick to him.

“You’re Carolos’ slave, correct?” she asks, looking him in the eyes, and he nods.

“Yes, mistress,” he answers, and she nods. He can feel the necklace on her throat shifting with the movement.

“You may wait in the kitchens, or in Antonius’ antechamber if you prefer.”

“The antechamber will be fine, mistress,” Magnus answers, and so another slave leads him deeper into the house, a coldly sumptuous chamber with candles burning, but no obvious bedroom, and neither sight nor sound of Carolos and Antonius. Magnus is honestly thankful for that, but he is equally curious and concerned now, and so he stretches out his power, seeking the feel of Carolos’ arm cuff and gold necklace. He finds them, rocking rhythmically, in a room _below_ the one in which he sits. Even as Magnus looks around, snatching up a candle to seek the telltale uneven join in the wall, he feels the motion of Carolos’ jewelry still, and then sink slowly down to come to rest.

Magnus identifies the passageway fairly easily; he can feel the metal bolts of the mechanism in the wall now that he knows to search for it. Apparently Antonius, for all his wealth, has not paid for a second round, for it’s not too much longer before Carolos’ jewelry begins to move again—putting on his chiton, Magnus surmises, and lets his sense for the metal fade into the background. Or more precisely, he does his best to ignore his perception of it. He’s about as successful as he was at ignoring the ache in his tooth, before he had it out.

It’s Carolos who’s first out of the passageway, Antonius behind him, and Magnus blinks when he registers the slight hitch in the other man’s gait. He doesn’t say anything, of course, and he keeps his face set in the neutral mask he learned in the arena, before they’d fitted him with the helmet.

One dark eyebrow lifts when Carolos glances at him, but he must have known already that Magnus was here, for he betrays no hint of real surprise. Instead he turns to Antonius and kisses him gently, murmuring something low in the other man’s ear that Magnus doesn’t try to overhear. He follows Carolos out the door, and another slave bearing a lamp escorts them out of the house to the door of the villa, where a litter and bearers with torches are waiting for them. Carolos climbs in without a word, the only sign of his exertions the speed with which he closes his eyes as it’s hoisted to the slaves’ shoulders.

They cross the city without incident, and Carolos accepts Magnus’ hand out of the litter when they’re back at their own door. Antonius’ bearers depart quickly, and Magnus undoes the bar with his powers rather than awaken Moira pointlessly.

Carolos is wilting beside him, already half-asleep, and Magnus draws him inside as quick as he can. There’s no polite way to say what he’s thinking, but of course Carolos has heard it already; after Magnus deposits him in his bed he opens one eye and stares up at Carolos with a knowing grin on his face. _I give my clients what they ask me for, Magnus. Sometimes they want a sword._

“Go to sleep, Carolos,” Magnus murmurs in answer, resisting the urge to smooth back the soft lock of hair that’s fallen into the younger man’s face. _Shall I douse the lamp?_

Carolos sits up and strips his chiton off without ceremony before bending over to unlace his sandals, the pale expanse of his back tinged golden in the light. “Please, my friend,” he says quietly. “And…thank you.”

Magnus disregards this in favor of putting out the lamp, leaving only starlight to see by. He takes himself off to his own bed before he can embarrass himself further, and to his own surprise, he plunges into the grasp of sleep almost immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Tony recites is Martial III.65, which is also where the chapter title comes from (chapter title slightly altered by me to fit the fic). Charles' taste in poetry is essentially mine, and it's not helping that I'm working from the relatively staid (though much less bowdlerized) 1993 Loeb edition, ed. and trans. D. R. Shackleton Bailey. A somewhat livelier translation of the poem is at [The Barefoot Muse](http://www.barefootmuse.com/archives/issue7/salemi2.htm).


End file.
